Episode 29: Two Good-byes Too Many

Chapter 56

Phillip raised the old knocker and tapped it twice, gently. In the quiet of the gray afternoon, it sounded sharp and resolute against the brass plate. Almost instantly Fettles opened and admitted him into the dim foyer. Napolean stood at attention, eyeing the guest eagerly.

            Phillip looked at the animal with a mixture of surprise and distrust. He was struck for the first time at how dog and butler shared the same spare frame, both bodies appearing nearly weightless. “I see you are getting along well with the dogs?”

            “Very well, sir.” Fettles replied, restraining himself from telling the story of how their relations had warmed. Instead he offered their visitor tea, which was declined, and before he could step away to summon his mistress, she appeared on the stairs. She was pulling baby Henri’s rag from her shoulder, having just put him down for a nap.

            “I have good news,” Phillip announced without smiling.

             “Yes?” asked Agnes. She knew why he had come and could feel her stomach contract.

            “First,” said Phillip, remembering himself, “How are you? How is the baby?”

            “We are both very well.”

            “It seems we have found a home for him,” he declared, “at least for now.”

            Agnes stared at him for a moment, then walked slowly to a chair in the parlor and sat down.

            “How soon?” she asked, looking at the swirling leaf pattern of the deep green carpeting.

            “Friday.” He took a step toward her. “They are good Christians. They attend the Methodist church in town and are very well spoken of. They have only one girl and are anxious for more children.”

            “Who are they?” asked Agnes.

            “Reverend and Mrs. Thoroughgood. And they understand that the child is not—well, that he has one foreign parent. They are very broad-minded.” Phillip turned his hat another revolution in his hands. “We’re terribly fortunate, really.”

            Agnes raised her eyes to his. “Are we?” Absently she rose and walked to the Swiss music box beside the sofa. She traced the mother-of-pearl inlay with a finger, then raised the lid and slowly cranked the golden handle back and forth. A bright, tinkling melody filled the room. Fortunate, he had said. No, we are certainly the two unluckiest people in the entire world. Torn apart in the full bloom of romance, we are like victims who survive a hurricane only to find that everything they had built lies in splinters—indeed, that even the ground itself has been carried out to sea.

Philip came close beside her.     “You must let the little fellow, go, Agnes. . . . And me,” he added.

            “Ah, so you finally say it!”

            “You must find someone else, Agnes.” Phillip looked impatiently at the cheery music box and abruptly shut it. “I’m no good to anyone now. I cannot possibly ruin your future with my own taint of scandal. You deserve so much better than that.”

            “My future?” Agnes said pointedly. “What would that be, precisely? The home I have poured myself into will soon fall into other hands. I have no money. I am nearly past marrying age, and now even little Henri—“ she broke off.

            “So how would you have it, then?” Phillip asked with unmistakable iciness. “We should get married, live with my father, and raise the little bastard child? Would that work well?”

            Agnes looked at him, startled. “Why are you speaking like this?”

            Phillip had taken on a hardened look. “Because one of us has to say it. You know as well as I do that it cannot happen, not in the world we live in.”

            “We could go somewhere else,” she heard herself saying.

            “No! I have been dashing all over looking for a safe place my whole life, Agnes, and I am tired. I’m sick of it!” He circled her chair. “You know I’ve started managing the farm father bought up north. I pray God that I finally succeed at something. The place has a terrible little house on it, more sunken than standing, but it will do for me. But you—you deserve so much better, in every way. I cannot put you there. I cannot sentence you to a life with me.”

            “Why can’t I decide?” she cried.

            He had passed behind her and now bent slightly to put his cheek against hers. “Let go, Agnes. You must let go—you know that.”

            Agnes stiffened and drew in a long, slow breath. “I am disappointed in you, my love. I thought you would have more courage than this.” Agnes felt Phillip pull back but she continued without turning. “Do you understand how many things I am giving up right now? That’s all I seem to do anymore.”

            Phillip walked around to face her. His features were stern. “I am sorry if I disappoint you, Agnes,” he said hollowly. “I do this more for you than for myself. I hope one day you will see that.”

            As she looked at him standing pompously upon that ludicrous statement, a new idea seeped into her mind. As it advanced, it cleared away all the useless detail of the past several weeks. One truth stood alone on the raw landscape, naked before her. Of course—this was never going to work, not from the very first day. You silly girl, why didn’t you see it sooner? Oh, what a fine disguise it has worn all along. She had prided herself in recognizing this feature even under the many costumes men cloaked it with, but not this time. Somehow this man had completely fooled her.

            “What is it?” Phillip asked, uncomfortable beneath her silent and wondering stare.

            Agnes clutched her skirt and wandered halfway across the room. She stood with her back to him, wondering how much to say. What if she was wrong? She turned to look at him in this new and dismal light. No, this explained too much.

            “I have been very foolish,” she said at last. She saw Phillip’s face begin to relax almost imperceptibly. “But not for the reason you think.” She moved behind the sofa and fingered the Italian lace runner that lay across its back, another gift from her father to her mother. What a wonderful life they had, she mused, reminded again of the precious thing that was fleeing once again beyond her grasp.

            “This was never going to actually happen, was it?”

            “What do you mean?” Phillip asked cautiously.

            “This lovely romance of ours. A wedding. A life as man and wife and children and all those things that a girl dreams of in her idle time.”

            Phillip waited.

            Agnes toyed with an ivory rosette between her fingers. “You have reasons for not having married by now, Phillip. Something always happens to ruin it, I imagine. And something always will.” She looked up.

            “What are you saying?” he asked, searching her face.

            “A summer of amusement was fine—some rendezvous in the garden, a new person to make the time pass pleasantly . . .  But you are simply not the matrimonial type, are you, my dear?” She looked at him. “Vera was right, and I should have listened.”

            “You’re saying that I never meant to marry you, then?” Phillip stammered. “That I was merely leading you on for my own pleasure?”

            “Maybe you didn’t mean to. But you also were never going to let it end in marriage.”

            Phillip took a step forward. “Do you really dare to speculate this way about my feelings, my motives? Why, you are accusing me of toying with you, like the lowest sort of scoundrel! You can’t mean it, Agnes.” Phillip turned away, then back again. “All this time I thought I had finally found someone who could really know me. A woman who could love me with all my flaws and my quirks, and the good parts, too. I have some good qualities, Agnes. My God, I thought you knew me.” By now he stood over her, nearly shouting.

            “I thought so too,” Agnes replied without moving. “But note this well: You are ending this, not me. Ask yourself why.”

            Drawn by the loud voices, Fettles arrived at a trot and stopped in the doorway. Agnes warned him off with a look.

            Phillip stepped back, studying her. At length he shook his head and picked up the hat he had laid on a table. “I will send Mrs. Morgan Friday morning for the child.”

            The statement reverberated inside Agnes’s head. She searched but found no words. Mute, she brushed past Phillip and retreated noiselessly up the carpeted stairs. The great silence of midday hung in her wake.

            Donning his hat, Phillip found his own way out.

Chapter 57

On the morning that Mrs. Morgan was to reclaim the little boy, he sat in his wheeled chair, playing with the tassels that hung from the sofa cushions. He glowed from a fresh scrubbing and floundered inside a new suit of clothes that was still a bit large for him. Agnes could not help looking out the window every few minutes to see if the Duke’s somber housekeeper was in the drive. They had packed up all of Henri’s clothing and effects the night before, and the black trunk sat somberly beside the front door. Empress had parked herself a few feet from the baby. Maybe she sensed that today something threatened their hold on this child, and her posture seemed to tell everyone that she was prepared to defend the boy against all challenges.

            Outside a stiff breeze troubled the gray day and sent fallen leaves scuttling across the ground. Agnes pushed the drapes as far back as possible to admit a little more light. It had been sunny earlier when she took Henri in his buggy for one last walk through the garden. She had stopped to pluck a lingering petunia and tickle his nose with it, a game that always made him laugh uncontrollably, squinting his eyes and pulling his little arms together. This morning she tried to store up the sound of that laughter for later, but it floated off on the wind, going the way of all tender things that make up the most precious parts of our lives.

            Agnes pulled back from the window.

            Mrs. Williams stopped dusting the curios. “Is she here?”

            Agnes nodded gravely.

            The two women waited for the sound of the knocker. It came, heavy and demanding. Empress raised her head and tensed. Fettles arrived, for once walking slowly, taking his time. He knew this child’s removal would take away from Agnes her last reason to smile. He allowed Mrs. Morgan a full second round of hammering, then slowly pulled open the door and admitted her. In her long black coat, the woman closely resembled an iron rod. An admirer of the queen of England, Mrs. Morgan had chosen to imitate that great lady’s continual mourning for the Prince of Wales. This marked the twentieth year of Mrs. Morgan’s wrapping herself in black since the tragic death of her own husband who had fallen off the seat of his cab going at full tilt, probably in consequence of a too-liberal round of refreshment at his favorite tavern. His locally famous tumble had left the cab driverless for the rest of its journey and deposited the passengers, once the horses finally came to halt, in an altogether unknown patch of country. With one wheel badly damaged, the bewildered group had no choice but to unharness the horses and lead them back the way they had come, a walk that required several hours through record-breaking heat. Mrs. Morgan championed her husband as blameless in the whole affair, somehow managing to make him the victim rather than the cause in every telling, and everyone knew better than to suggest otherwise in her presence. 

            “Is the child ready?” she asked by way of greeting. Her small, dark eyes glistened with the seriousness of her mission.

            Fettles said nothing but showed her into the parlor. Mrs. Morgan swept the scene with a critical look.

            “I’m here for the child,” she pronounced.

            Agnes, Fettles, and Mrs. Williams exchanged glances. Neither woman moved, transfixed by the awful prospect of handing their soft little darling into the courier’s steely grip. Mrs. Williams reached down and lifted Henri carefully from his chair. Agnes darted to her and took the baby. She held him tight against her and covered his dark, silky head with her hand. She looked around at the three people before her as they watched the color drain from her face and hands. Mrs. Morgan stepped forward and stuck out her black-gloved hands. Agnes felt everything in her rise up in revolt.

            “Give him here, now. They’re expecting him.”

            Agnes did not move.

            Mrs. Morgan shot a look at the others and pursed her pale lips. She turned to Fettles. “Put his things in the carriage, will you?”

            Fettles looked at his mistress inquiringly.

            Agnes shook her head slowly, her eyes pleading.

            “For the love of Mary, what’s the meaning of this?” Mrs. Morgan demanded. “I’ve not got all day. I’m taking the little burden off your hands, you know. We’re lucky someone is willing to take him.” She came closer and made a motion to take the baby from Agnes.

            Pulling back and holding Henri more tightly still, Agnes suddenly turned, fled from the room, and raced upstairs. The startled party heard a door slam, and Fettles thought he could just make out the key turning in the lock.

            Mrs. Morgan, gasping in outrage, made a move to follow her, but Empress had taken the hem of her dress in her jaws and held her fast. Napoleon, by nature every man’s friend, stood at a yard from the woman and silently displayed his teeth. Fettles took charge and asked Mrs. Williams if she would please attend to Miss Somerset, then suggested to Mrs. Morgan that they deliver the child to her later in the day, apologizing for the great trouble she had gone to and assuring her that all would be made right shortly.

            The widow’s consternation was so deep that she could only stare at Fettles, then at the dogs, and back at the butler. Fettles, feeling that she had been sufficiently convinced of the enmity of the entire household, reproached Empress, who dropped the damp hem. He then stood between Napoleon and the visitor so she might exit in safety.

            Locking the heavy door behind her, Fettles ran upstairs. Mrs. Williams and Marie were both listening at the bedroom door to Agnes’s muffled voice.

            “. . . so who am I? I am invisible! Everything happens around me and to me and all I can do is sit by and stop up the bleeding. Now I am supposed to sit here, again, and hand you over to that monstrous woman? She’ll take you away and give you to God only knows whom.” Her voice went back and forth as one pacing about the room.

            Fettles signaled the two ladies to make room and moved close to the door. “Miss Agnes, may I come in? Mrs. Morgan is gone.”

            There was silence for a moment. “She’s gone?”

            “Yes, ma’m. I sent her away. May I come in?”

            The lock turned slowly, but the door remained closed. Fettles knocked a warning and went in, closing the door behind him. Agnes stood in the middle of the room, clutching herself. Little Henri was pulling himself to his feet with the help of her quilt, which he held in his fists like a man climbing a rock face. Fettles put an arm around her and squeezed her shoulders.

            “I don’t think I can stand this,” she said, not looking up. “I’m exhausted and I’m angry and I don’t know how to get my breath anymore. I pray for strength, but every day feels harder than the one before.” She looked at her butler. “I feel like a piece of floating wreckage, Fettles—I can’t steer myself in any direction, I’m simply tossed at the whim of the waves.”

            Fettles drew her over to the tall bed where little Henri was carefully working his way sideways in short, jabbing steps. The two friends sat on the edge side by side.

            Agnes wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “This all looks very irrational, doesn’t it?”

            “Not at all. I know how much you love this little boy. But it is true,” his voice softened “that we cannot keep the baby. I think you know that.”

            “Yes, I know that. I hate it, though. I never dreamed I would get so attached to him. What did you tell Mrs. Morgan?”

            “That we would bring the baby to her this afternoon.”

            “I can’t do it, Fettles, I cannot physically place this child into her hands.”

            “We’ll send Mrs. Williams or Maria.”

            Agnes sat silent and fingered the fabric of her soft skirt. “I want that family who’s getting him to know that, if for any reason, they change their mind about him, we will take him back. Can we tell them that?”

            “Yes, I will make sure they know.” Fettles replied warmly. Agnes put her arms around his thin neck and hugged him as when she was a child.

“Fettles,” she murmured, “do you remember when I fell from my horse when I was eleven? You were the one who read to me by the hour and bribed the kitchen staff to make me puddings and tarts. I know I was very gloomy and you tried so hard to cheer me up.” After a pause she added, “You have been a wonderful friend to me all these years.”

            Fettles smiled and, pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket, offered it to Agnes. “I remember. And we played many games of hearts as well. You hated losing,” he reminded her.

            Agnes looked at him thoughtfully. “Yes, I hate losing. I’ve never been philosophical about it.”

           After several minutes the two friends straightened themselves, picked up Henri, and walked slowly downstairs to feed him one last meal in the warmth of the old kitchen.

To be continued . . .

Episode 28: Fettles Surprises His Mistress and Stella Says Goodbye

Part V. The Bells of St. Monica’s

Chapter 54        

We sometimes find that those things we fought most fiercely become the very delight of our days—if our pride does not keep us from changing course. So it was for Fettles and the unwelcome kennel guests. For the first several days of their residence, Empress and Napoleon drew only burning glances from the butler, who saw them as a daily reminder of their felonious owners. He did his best to ignore the animals as Isaiah took them for daily runs or let them lap thirstily from the fountain. Still, this alert man could not help but notice when, by degrees, the dogs stopped running and only padded about listlessly until Isaiah led them, heads down, back to the kennel. Fettles, with his heart as soft as a feather pillow, began to worry despite himself as the dogs grew gloomy and the days turned cooler.

            One morning, just after dressing, he crept to the kennel as the sky was lightening. He found the pair half buried in the straw and tight against each other. Picking up a new scent, they raised their heads and looked at him, but did not venture forth from their nest. Summoning his courage—Fettles had no natural affinity for animals—he stepped slowly toward them and crouched down on his heels. To his surprise, Napoleon stretched his head forward and laid his narrow chin on the butler’s bony knee. From this simple expression of gentlemanly good will, Fettles drew the conclusion that the animals were far smarter than he had thought all along. After stroking their heads and speaking words of encouragement, he left the kennel determined to improve their situation before another night fell.

            The sun was up by now and the sparkling dew lay heavy upon the lawn. As he trudged to the house, he was surprised to see Stella, wrapped in a shawl, walking slowly across the terrace, lost in contemplation of the scene before her.

            “You’re up very early,” chirped Fettles as he stepped up to join her. “Fine morning.”

            “It is incredible, isn’t it? It was getting hard to believe we would ever see the sun again.”

            “That’s very true. So much rain is bad for the joints and bad for the spirits.”

            “Fettles, I’m leaving next week. I’ve already written to William—he wants to come out and accompany me home. But I hate to tell Agnes. Everyone has left, and now me.”

            Fettles’ heart sank within him. “Our house does seem to grow quieter every week. If it weren’t for the baby, of course. And Lord Phillip, I trust, will soon find him a home and take him away as well.”

            Stella turned her pale blue eyes earnestly upon the butler. “I think she should keep him, don’t you? We have all grown so attached to him—I wish I could take him myself. It will be horrid to give him away.”

            “Miss Stella, you have a great heart, much like your aunt. But it wouldn’t do to keep the little fellow. It would be quite impossible, you know.”

            Stella frowned and turned back to the brightening landscape, where here and there a rabbit nibbled its breakfast lit by the long rays of early light. “I shall miss this place so much.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “I can’t believe that I may never see it again. How is it possible that some other family will live in these rooms and play games on the lawn? They’ll carry in their furniture and plant things in all the wrong places. It’s too sad, Fettles,” she said, looking at him as her eyes brimmed with tears, as though asking him to say that it need not be so. But he was fighting down a lump in his own throat, and all he could do was take her hand.

            They stood gazing at the luxurious piece of Earth that would surely go on without any of them. But exactly how they would all go on without it confounded them into silence, and it was not until Isaiah noisily threw open the kennel door to let the dogs out that they started from their reverie and went wordlessly in to breakfast.

            Thoughts of how to approach his mistress regarding the dogs kept Fettles’ mind busy the entire morning. He played through a dozen different scenes, discarding one after another. He consulted Mr. Somerset’s collection of books on dog breeds and their characteristics, mentally noting the winning attributes of the greyhound as well as the warnings about their need for warmth, stability, and their master’s company. He sought out Ned and asked how near he was to finding the dogs a home. Fettles was surprised at his own gladdening when Ned replied that so far no one had expressed an interest.

            If it weren’t for Agnes being allergic to animals, the butler’s task would have been easier. But since she was a child, his mistress was reduced to misery in the company of cats and horses and their band of hounds. She had long ago forbid any animal in the house, allowing only small caged birds. Still, Fettles had built his arguments, and something had to be done.

After lunch he found Agnes in the music room, playing the piano softly to little Henri, who sat in his chair in the sunshine of a tall window, chewing on a little rag doll Marie had fashioned for him. As she finished the sonata, he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

            He excused himself for raising the topic, and certainly she might be surprised after his earlier misapprehension, he admitted, but he had noticed a change for the worse in the dogs, and a little research explained why it was so, and an improvement in their situation might be effected with little stress on the household, and after all, he was sure Agnes would agree that bringing them into the house was the humane thing to do.

            Agnes looked at him blankly. “Fettles, you’re serious.”

            Fettles tried to straighten himself, but being already in a posture of the greatest possible rectitude, he settled for raising his chin. “I am, Madam.”

            “What about my allergies?”

            “Madam, the breed is short-haired and sheds little. I have read that many people who cannot tolerate other breeds are perfectly comfortable with the greyhound.”

            “Has no one responded to Ned’s posting?”

            “No one, ma’m.” Fettles locked his fingers and looked at her with deep concern. “They don’t look well at all. Ned says they barely eat. They need human contact, Miss Agnes. Apparently it’s in their nature. I know you have been terribly occupied with the affairs of the estate and with the baby. It’s no wonder and no shame that you have not noticed their condition, especially with their coming to us uninvited as they did—indeed, ever so much more than uninvited. But I feel a short trial in the house would show us whether a change in surroundings would improve their health.”

            Agnes ran her fingers thoughtfully over the intricate gold lettering above the smooth ivory keys. “What about the baby?” she asked, looking at Henri as he leaned out of his chair to study the doll he had dropped. “I don’t trust them around him. We don’t know how they’ll react. They might see him as a large possum.”

            “They are intelligent creatures,” Fettles assured her. “But your caution is wise. We could keep them in the kitchen.”

            “That hardly sounds sanitary.”

            Fettles thought. “The library?”

            “They might chew the books.”

            “My room, perhaps.”

            “So much for company—you’re never in your room. You barely sleep.”

            Fettles had run out of ideas. Agnes took pity on him and offered him the kitchen if he could work it out with Dahlia, and under no circumstances were they to be fed anything intended for the family or staff.

            So began an unlikely friendship between man and beast. Within forty-eight hours of being admitted to the cheery warmth of the great kitchen, with its comforting activity from early morning until well after dark, with its nourishing smells and constant chatter, Empress and Napoleon showed undeniable signs of improvement. They both began eating again (even, despite Agnes’s strict prohibition, tidbits of meat that somehow fell from the table while carving) and once again displayed their original energy on their morning runs. Napoleon, by some means that could not be discerned, understood that Fettles was his savior and rose to greet him whenever he entered the kitchen—which was very often these days. Empress took the new situation as her due, and while she watched everyone and everything attentively, displayed no particular gratitude for her happier lot in life.

            One afternoon Agnes and Stella were coming downstairs with their arms full of old gowns and coats for the poorhouse, when they spied Fettles walking briskly through the foyer with Napoleon at his side.

            “Fettles!” cried Agnes with an inquiring look that was not without reproach.

            “Ah,” replied the butler, “I was just taking him back to the kitchen. He somehow slipped out.”

            Agnes looked at him coolly. Fettles was a poor liar.

            “He seems to have adopted me, madam,” Fettles confessed, patting the dog’s neck. “He stays by the kitchen door for the longest time after I leave and sometimes sets to whining. It strains Dahlia’s nerves.”

            Agnes turned to Stella. “Can you take the pair home with you? Wouldn’t William like some dogs?”

            “Oh, no,” cried Fettles involuntarily. “That is, I’m sure they could not find a better home than yours, Miss Stella. It’s just that, with a baby on the way, this might not be the best time to introduce a pair of animals into your household.”

            Agnes approached man and dog and stood looking down at the hound, who gazed up at her brightly. “Have they made any messes inside?”

            “No, not one,” enthused Fettles. “They are very tidy animals.”

            Agnes considered. “Keep him away from the baby.”

            “I guarantee it,” Fettles replied, clasping his hands like a child. “Thank you, ma’m.”

            From that day forward Fettles was seldom seen without the black-and-white canine hugging his side or trailing just behind, as though eager to assist him in any duties that a creature with four legs and no hands might be capable of.

Chapter 55

While the last three months had seen people leaving Brookside in a steady stream of fastened trunks and wistful encouragements, one person had just arrived. William had come from Chicago to take his wife home. To Stella’s surprise, he had made the offer himself to come and accompany her; indeed, he had insisted upon it despite her telling him that she was quite well and did not want to be the cause of any interruption in his business.

            Great was his surprise when he saw his little Stella grown to such a diameter in his absence. To his wife’s delight, William laughed and threw his arms around her and congratulated her on doing “such a first-rate job” of bringing their little one along. (The two made a darling pair, he a slim, strapping German just over six feet tall, and she barely grazing the five-foot mark.) This conjugal celebration was a joyful relief from the gloom that had settled upon the house, and everyone caught the spirit. It lasted a blessed three days while William remained with them, telling harrowing stories about the meatpacking trade, recounting the wonders of Chicago, and passing along such jokes as were suitable for ladies’ ears.

            Stella, like all the women of the household, had in her heart adopted little Henri and took pains to show off his most lovable features and precocious accomplishments to her husband. Her own growing child within her had lately provoked new pains in her lower back that kept Stella from holding Henri for more than a few minutes these days. But in fact, he wriggled so, struggling to be let down to explore on his own, that it had become difficult for anyone to hold him for long. The ladies usually put him into his little wheeled chair that he pushed around the room with his smooth, bare feet, crying for rescue whenever he worked himself into a corner. Empress, who had tired of the kitchen routine and somehow gained the run of the house along with Napoleon, often was the first to reach him in such times of distress and would lick the tears from his face until someone arrived to set him in motion again. Napoleon took small notice of the strange little human, and, like his master, preferred to keep his distance from the noisy, sticky bundle.

            Wednesday came, and Stella was packed and dressed for the trip home an hour before they needed to head for the train station. She sat with Agnes once more on the terrace, wrapped up against the chilly morning air and taking in the view for the last time.

            “I can’t think about not seeing this again,” she said without turning her head. “I find myself pretending that Mr. Rockwell will still find a way to save the estate. He might, you know.”

            Her aunt smiled at her sadly.

            Stella leaned toward her. “Do you remember when I first arrived and I told you that I would not want to leave? I’ve been here nearly four months now and I was right; I still don’t want to go.”

            “And I, more than I could have known then, am not ready to let you go.” The two women gripped hands. “Oh, Stella, I will miss you so.”

            “I’ll write as soon as I’m home, and you must come once the baby is born and help me.”

            “You won’t need help. You have had Henri to practice on and you are marvelous with him. Plus you’ll have the governess William engaged. But I will come just the same—you won’t be able to keep me away!”

            The time came for leave-taking. Ned and Isaiah loaded all of Stella’s things onto the coach. So prolonged were the hugs between Agnes and Stella, Stella and little Henri, and Stella and the remaining staff, that her husband at last tapped his watch and warned that they would miss all the day’s trains if they did not get started. Everyone stood on the front steps and watched the carriage lumber off, with Stella waving a white handkerchief out the window all the way to the bend where they passed out of sight.

            Agnes spent the rest of the day playing blocks intently with the baby and personally taking care of all the tasks she had shared with Stella. She pushed away the keen awareness that one day soon Henri, too, would ride away.

* * *

            In the lazy light of late morning, Claudia lay stretched across her favorite burgundy divan reading the Duchess Chronicle. As usual, she had turned immediately to the notices. They were invaluable for learning whose fortunes were rising and whose falling, what new households were forming and which others going to pieces—a successful betrothal here, a business closing there, a fire sale, a new butler needed, horses for sale. She knew that behind each terse notice lay a story. So the small paragraph at the bottom of page six announcing that an estate was being offered up, whose brief description matched Brookside’s exactly, caught her attention like a fishhook. She pulled herself up straight on the couch.

            Impossible, she thought. My luck cannot have reached such mountainous proportions. Or could it? The exquisite scandal Claudia had engineered to extinguish her neighbor’s romance had proved eminently satisfying, but a crisis of the heart does not bring about the sale of a family home. The woman must be ruined, thought Claudia, but how? The timing might be coincidental. By degrees, she realized that total victory over Agnes might be within her grasp. She had already disgraced her man Phillip, making him an untouchable of the lowest sort, one who consorts intimately with savages. Any chance for a union between him and the House of Somerset lay in a thousand pieces. And now the family seat of that same noble name could, just possibly, be hers.

            Her own Beaujour was fine but it was not Brookside. Claudia’s home possessed less acreage, little water, no view, a minimal garden, and a house—no matter how she dressed it up—far less imposing than Agnes’s. That visit she had paid Agnes early in the summer to suggest that Brookside might be for sale (using the trusted “I heard from friends that possibly . . . ”) had been a lark, just something to provoke the girl, or at best put a seed in her mind. Could that seed have sprouted?

Money for the purchase should not be a problem. Claudia’s recent sale of her share in the railroad had netted even more than she had hoped, and the fact that it was not entirely hers to sell would never be proven.

            She would need to move quickly. Brookside had a reputation as one of the premier properties in the county. She would pay a visit immediately to her men at Sutterfield Brothers and have them make inquiries for her. And, of course, she would drop by Agnes’s on the way back in an act of perfect solicitude to convey her sympathy at seeing the estate put on the block. Claudia knew that Agnes would not see her today, just as she had refused all of her visits since the night of the ball. But again, she could leave her card.

            That afternoon, as the sun slid behind an unbroken layer of clouds, Claudia called for her carriage and paused to smile at herself in the hall mirror, tucking her beautiful hair under one of her showier hats and buttoning on a pair of rust-colored gloves. “Time to take it all,” she whispered, and stepped gaily into her coach with instructions to head for Chesterton at a quick trot.

            Had Claudia gotten away only a few minutes earlier, her carriage would have crossed Phillip’s, his turning into Brookside as her own passed the great estate on her way to town. Mercifully for him he was already up the long drive and knocking at Agnes’s door.

To be continued . . .

Episode 27: Rupa Must Tell Her Story and Eleanor Wakes Up to a New Day

Chapter 52

Rupa barely got through the second show. Her legs dragged when they should leap, the pert angles of her shoulders drooped miserably, and her eyes met no one’s gaze. But the men applauded as always and Monsieur Vaudin said nothing. Back in the dressing room she hurriedly wiped off her makeup and hung up her costume, then ran up the steep, narrow stairs to the safety of her little room. Fortunately the other girls were still downstairs visiting with clients or helping at the bar—they relished the tips that a swish of the hips or a knowing laugh could earn them. Their customers would happily drink and play cards until early morning, when Monsieur Vaudin started blowing out lamps and ushering lingerers out the door.

            Rupa flew to her little dresser and pulled out the top drawer. All the way in the back, under a pile of silk scarves, was a tiny ivory box no bigger than a walnut. Her father had given it to her when she was a little girl. She rubbed her finger over the procession of carved elephants marching around the edge of the lid, then opened it and drew out a piece of paper that had been folded many times over. She read the address on it as she had a thousand times before: Fellcrest, Route 7, Duchess County, New York, United States. She refolded the paper tenderly and held it to her chest. How he must be suffering—to have her child delivered to him as though it were his. Imagine what people must be thinking of him. As young as she was, Rupa knew enough to understand that the event may well have shattered his life.

            A wave of rage filled her and she clamped her hands to her head. She spun this way and that and, with no outlet for her distress, threw herself against the wall with the little window to the sea. Weeping, she raised her eyes and looked out desperately over the red roofs of the mostly sleeping city. She never dreamed her father would go to such lengths, following their tracks himself, even to America. Foolish, foolish man! Now Phillip was paying for her silence, paying for the wickedness of her brothers. But how could she have told anyone? Her mother would have blamed her, and her father—there was no telling what he might have done in his rage. The whole family would have twisted every which way to avoid facing the truth: that her brothers had handed her over to a stinking British soldier for a little drink. She had seen that soldier before, hanging about the edge of their property with her brothers. They liked him for the gin he shared, and she had caught the big, dirty foreigner more than once eyeing her with a sickening smile. Then came that night . . . She would never forget the smell of him as he came toward her, nor her terror the moment she realized what was about to happen.

            She saw again the four of them just inside the doorway to her room, her three brothers looking nervous behind the soldier. She saw his pale skin and matted beard as he stumbled toward her. He had gone too far. Arihant, the eldest, grabbed his arm as the soldier started to pull off her sari, but the large man took out his gun and pointed it at him. Arihant fell back with the others, and all she was aware of was this beast on top of her and the sound of Anil, her youngest brother, sobbing and arguing with Arihant. Viplav, the middle brother, kept his mouth shut as always and did whatever Arihant said.

            When it was over and the soldier had shuffled out the door, Arihant threw her clothes at her. He leaned close to her face as she hid herself, crying, behind her hands.

            “Look at me, Rupa,” he insisted. “Look at me!”

            It took all her strength to lower her hands and turn her eyes toward his.

            “This did not happen, my little river rat,” he whispered. “Do you understand? It was a bad dream, nothing more. I know you won’t tell anyone, will you? It would not be good for you.” His beautiful brown eyes were fierce and frightened, all at the same time. She knew he would do anything to protect this secret.

            “Will you keep quiet or not?” She could smell the alcohol heavy on his breath and slowly nodded. The next day at dinner her father announced her betrothal to Manindra, the notorious local aristocrat. A fine match, he said, the son of a prince—reason to celebrate. Arihant shot her a warning look. No, she would not tell. But she could run away. She would not spend another week in this dreadful home or be traded off to a lunatic nobleman for the rest of her life. This American man Phillip was leaving their house soon, and he was so kind. Maybe he would help her. She had to take the chance.

            Now that story must be told, she realized. Rupa calmed herself, breathing in the cool night air, taking control of her thoughts. She must send a letter. Phillip’s Hindi was poor, and she knew no English, so she would write in French. Elise the barmaid had been teaching her for months now and said she was learning well. Everyone who was anyone knew French, Elise said, so that would include a high-born man of Phillip’s class, surely.

            But while Rupa could make herself understood in Marseilles, she could not spell, and she struggled to form the strange letters of this foreign alphabet. She would need Elise’s help. And for that, she would have to tell her the story.

            The next day Rupa rose earlier than usual and walked to a stationer’s to buy a few sheets of paper and an envelope. When Elise arrived for work at La Coquette, Rupa drew her aside and asked the favor. The generous barmaid readily agreed, so the two decided to meet at the city’s main post office the following morning, where Elise would write out a letter from Rupa’s dictation.

            Never having set foot in a post office, Rupa did not know what to expect. Imagining a chaotic scene that would require well-placed bribes to get her mail into the right bag and onto the proper ship, she was surprised to find the main post office in Marseilles a smart and busy place, with polished counters you could write at, complete with pens and bottles of ink, and all kinds of people coming and going with packages of every description. When Elise arrived, they found a corner away from the hustle and bustle, and spread out Rupa’s letter paper on a counter.

            Rupa looked earnestly at her friend. “What I tell you is not good, Elise. Maybe you will not like me anymore after I tell you. But it is necessary.”

            Elise looked down at the girl matter-of-factly. “My dear, you can’t tell me much that I have not heard or even done myself.”

            “And you will not tell anyone? Not the other girls or Monsieur Vaudin?”

            “Of course not. It’s none of their business, is it?”

            Rupa relaxed for just a moment to smile in innocent gratitude at her friend, then she began her tale. She interrupted it only once near the start to ask her scribe to please write it down in good French, not in her exact words with all the mistakes (to which Elise, raised by a literary mother until her early death, told her not to worry—that when the letter was finished, Dumas himself would find nothing to quarrel with.) [1]

            Eventually they had covered three sheets of paper and said everything Rupa felt necessary. Elise blotted the pages carefully, folded them into the envelope, and inscribed the address from Rupa’s little piece of paper. She handed the envelope to Rupa. She had written everything down without comment, and only now, as Elise gave the young girl a tender pat, did Rupa see how sad she looked.

            “Take this to the window and send it off,” Elise instructed, pointing across the room. “You are a very brave girl.” Elise cleared her throat and touched the corner of her eye. “Now I’m off to La Jambe Pendante (the Hanging Leg had become the staff’s name for their cabaret since M. Vaudin’s installation of the new racy sign) “so I will see you soon.” With a brisk smile, Elise left Rupa to conclude her business.

            Rupa walked to a window where a small, yellowed man sat, smelling strongly of tobacco. He examined the address and stamped the envelope forcefully in the upper corner, then tossed it into a gray sack behind him. Rupa handed over the price demanded, then ventured to ask, “Please, Monsieur, do you know how long it will take?”

            “Is it urgent?” snapped the man. Rupa pulled back involuntarily, squeezing her little purse. “If it was urgent, you should have said something,” he chided her. The poor girl stared at him, not knowing what to say.

            “Well, urgent or not, it’s all about the same to America. Two days by train, seven days by ship, then what they do over there, God only knows. So maybe two weeks, maybe three.” He sniffed and glared at her as though daring her to ask another question.

            Conscious of some people now waiting behind her and too afraid to satisfy her curiosity further, Rupa murmured her thanks to the violent little man and hurried away. Three weeks, she thought. So much can happen in three weeks. But it would have to do. She only hoped that the ship carrying her precious letter made it to New York harbor without sinking in the middle of the Atlantic. Two ships had gone down just a week earlier after colliding in a fog, and she wondered now how many important letters and fat packages tied up with loving care had sunk to the bottom with them. At this thought, a gloom settled over her in which she spent the rest of the day. She had to believe that her story would reach Phillip and that it would make a difference. Having included no return address—she must not be found— she would never know for sure.

Chapter 53

Eleanor pulled the damp cloth from her head and very slowly opened her eyes. She knew it was late afternoon by the light slicing between the barely open drapes and by the special quiet outside, when those used to living in a hot climate wait for the sun to slide low so they can finish their chores or simply stroll about the cooling streets. She recalled the sleepy region’s motto, “Deucement le matin, pas trop vite le soir.” [2] Gradually she pushed herself up and lowered her feet to the floor. Yes, the ferocious pain was gone. Only a dull soreness remained and a subtle ache that might simply have been from hunger. She dimly remembered someone knocking at the door the night before telling her to open up for her dinner, but she had sent him away with something like a threat. So she had eaten nothing for at least twenty-four hours.

            She looked at the other bed. Its coverlet was unwrinkled, the pillow still round. Just as I thought, she mused, Wilbur had not returned. She had enjoyed the quiet, but had to admit that it was unusual for her husband to be gone on a foray this long. He usually stumbled back around dawn and collapsed into bed. Once he was gone for two days, but that was because he had gone to gamble in a neighboring town and lost everything, including coach fare, and had to walk home, an experience which included spending the night under a tree and very nearly being attacked by an owl.

            Eleanor washed her face and arranged her hair. She would have a meal downstairs and then find the baths. Nothing was more salutary after a bout with such pain than a gentle scrubbing and a soak in warm saltwater. Putting on hat and gloves, she descended the main staircase in search of the dining room. She found the room empty aside from a short man in a long apron spreading white tablecloths. Clearly she was too early for dinner, so she addressed herself to the front desk, inquiring in flawless French where she might find a quality bathhouse. The round, pale clerk with crooked spectacles referred her two blocks away, assuring her that it was the very best in town. He pulled a coupon from below the counter, imprinted with the hotel’s name, added his initials in the corner, and urged her to present it for extra special treatment. And he hoped she would return for dinner, served at seven, tonight featuring a seafood bouillabaisse—the house specialty—with sweet melon.

            Eleanor took a deep breath, delighted at the prospect of a good bath followed by a hearty meal, and walked to the door. A small sign posted just beside it made her stop. The word Attention appeared in bold letters across the top, so she paused with one hand on the door and read the short notice. All travelers were advised to be cautious after dark in consequence of the murder of a gentleman, possibly American, in the Faubourg Gastonnier, most probably at the hands of foreigners, who remained at large. Any information regarding the crime or the identity of the gentleman would be most appreciated. Kindly report any and all knowledge to the Prefecture of Police, rue Saint Etienne. 

            A gentleman, possibly American. She looked back toward the counter. The bespectacled man was bent over a ledger, making notations. Eleanor retraced her steps.

            “Excuse me, Monsieur.” The round man straightened, marking his place with a finger.

            “Do you happen to know any more about the incident reported on the notice there?”

            “Only what the gendarme told me who posted it this afternoon. He said the deceased was a man about two meters tall, lean, with graying hair. He wondered if we were missing anyone of that description. I told him,” the man recounted with a look of satisfaction, “that physical descriptions of our guests are not the sort of thing we record in our books. And since I was on leave the last two days, I could not answer for the attributes of all our clients who had checked in during that time.”

            Eleanor made sure her face reflected the fact that she found nothing exceptionally clever in what the clerk had told the officer. “How did they know he was American?”

            “I asked the same thing,” declared the man. “They said his clothes all had American labels, New York City, I believe. But the boots were English.”

            Eleanor stared at the man. Like an avalanche, one mighty thought fell upon her mind: While she lay in bed waiting out her headache, Wilbur may have moved from being the nettlesome man who strutted and smirked and burned through their fortune to the softened and harmless status of the past tense. His clothes all had American labels, New York City, I believe. But the boots were English. Those silly boots he insisted on buying the last time they were in London even though he had three fine pairs in his trunk. And his clothes, all from Percy Haberdashers on Sixth Avenue—for years the only tailors he would buy from.

            “Does Madame possibly know the gentleman?” The clerk’s voice came from far away.

            She hesitated only a second. “No, I don’t believe so. Thank you.”

            Eleanor found the baths as good as the clerk had promised and more. As she lounged in the briny tub, inhaling the sharply scented steam, the accumulated anxiety of the past year melted into the water. It did not matter that soon her money would be gone. She would have to find another man quickly or work—a fate that, until this moment, had horrified her more than any other. Either way, she would wake every morning without having to set eyes on Wilbur Brown. Of course, this was only if his really was the corpse lying on ice in the Marseilles morgue. He might walk into the hotel tonight and fall into bed, only temporarily the worse for wear. But something told Eleanor that he was dead, and she was alone in this gritty town, indeed, in the entire world.

            She turned over in her mind matter-of-factly how she might determine if this were true. Should she go to the morgue and ask to see the body? They would want identification. She would have to fill out paperwork and answer questions. No, that was impossible. Maybe she should conduct her own private investigation. But where would she begin? He could have struck off in any direction that night. She decided to wait a few more days and trust that his absence would confirm his fate.

            She arrived at the hotel dining room at seven o’clock precisely, freshly dressed and wonderfully famished. The maitre d’hotel bowed and asked if her husband would be joining her.

            “No,” she smiled, “I am dining alone tonight.” At a small table by the window, she took her time over each course, savoring the Mediterranean flavors, enjoying a glass of sweet wine that Wilbur would never have allowed (sweet grapes were a waste of vineyard space, he maintained), and altogether taking twice as long as she ever had at dinner with her husband. His nerves always propelled them forward to the next thing, whatever that was, before coffee could be served. When the dessert cart rolled up, she took her time examining each magnificent confection before pointing to the largest one, a tart covered in berries and rich cream, and ordered a café au lait. She pushed her fork slowly into the tart, splitting a strawberry in two. In her mind Wilbur grew more certainly dead with each delicious mouthful.

To be continued . . .

---

[1] Alexandre Dumas, popular French novelist of the mid-1800s.

[2] Gently in the morning, and not too fast come evening.

Episode 26: Henri Moves In and Wilbur Does Business With Some Corsicans

Chapter 50

What a joy it is when man’s inventiveness produces something truly needed. Mrs. Williams returned from town with ten bottles of Mr. Nestlé’s miraculous new infant formula, which was all the Chesterton Market had on hand. She proceeded to mix some with boiled water and filled a baby bottle with it. Agnes and Vera watched closely as she fitted the bottle with a rubber nipple, then Agnes gratefully handed her the screaming baby. Sitting down in a kitchen chair, the housekeeper offered the substitute breast to the squirming child in her arms. So great was his distress that he entirely ignored the nipple she touched to his open mouth. She rocked and clucked and coaxed, but little Henri only wailed with renewed vigor as Agnes, Vera, Stella, Fettles, and Dahlia stood together watching anxiously.

            “He doesn’t know what it is,” said Mrs. Williams over the din. “Dahlia, get the molasses.”

            Dahlia pulled down the jar of sweet, thick syrup and swabbed the nipple generously. Mrs. Williams offered it again, touching it to the baby’s tongue. Gradually his little mouth closed around it and his sobs trailed off as he began to suck. The onlookers clutched one another in relief, and Vera started to send up a cheer until Mrs. Williams stopped her with a finger to her lips. The famished child drained the bottle to within the last ounce before falling asleep against the good lady’s comfortable bosom. One little arm lay across his chest, the other dangled free, and in this sweet silent state he looked for all the world like an angel in their midst. Mrs. Williams threw a kitchen cloth over her shoulder, put the child against it, and patted him gently. A bubble of gas softly escaped his parted lips, and satisfied, she rose carefully and took him upstairs to bed.

            Agnes, Vera, and Stella followed her on tiptoe and stood around the crib watching his sleeping form. Agnes whispered to her housekeeper, “How will we hear him when he wakes up?”

            “Oh,” replied Mrs. Williams, “we’ll all be checking on him, won’t we? I’ll move into the adjoining room so that I’ll hear him at night.”

            Agnes protested, but Mrs. Williams put up her hand and would not allow any discussion. “Only for this first week,” she warned. “After that you ladies can manage everything yourselves.”

            Stella followed Mrs. Williams out of nursery, but Vera held Agnes back. “Agnes,” she said in a low voice, “the formula is expensive. Mrs. Williams says he will drink a lot of it, and at fifty cents a bottle the cost will mount quickly. I’ll leave you some money for it, and don’t scrimp. In a couple of months she says he’ll be ready to try cow’s milk. But by then you will probably have found another arrangement, God willing.”

            Agnes looked at the tiny boy, his fist curled beside his tranquil face, the black hair lying in careless disarray about his head. Another arrangement. What would that be? The orphanage? Or maybe Phillip would take him back. She put a hand on his warm head and felt her heart sink.

            “Don’t get attached to him,” warned Vera gently. “He may disappear to another home before we know it.”

            Agnes sighed and assured her that she herself was simply caring for this child as any Christian would, nothing more. She had no plans to attach herself to one more thing that might soon be snatched from her.

The week passed quickly. Each day Mrs. Williams gave the three ladies pointers on handling a baby and feeding, diapering, and washing it. Stella observed each operation closely and took every opportunity to practice on little Henri. It made the advent of her own child more real, she said, and her excitement was obvious. She talked more and more about her husband William and began arranging her departure. After all, she had used up all her art paper, and traveling to Chicago would only get more difficult for her the longer she waited.

            But the first to leave for home was Vera. On the morning of her departure, a few early-turning leaves had already fallen and lay thinly about in a dull yellow scatter. Ned loaded her trunk onto the carriage once goodbyes had been said three times all around, and still the ladies stood on the front steps with little Henri bundled up on Agnes’s hip. Vera was promising to return before Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving—the very word sent a twinge through Agnes.

            “Better yet,” said Vera, “you must come to New York. Get away from all this for a while. I can introduce you to my friends, whose strange situations and dreadful problems can’t help but improve your spirits.”

            Agnes said yes, maybe. In any case, she would certainly be there for Christmas and Vera’s wedding. Everyone indulged in one more hug, the tearful aunt kissed the baby again, and Ned helped her into the compartment and closed the door. Agnes and Stella stood in the cool morning air and watched her disappear from sight, feeling her absence already.

            Vera had been gone only an hour when Phillip arrived. Every few days he had been stopping by faithfully to inquire about the baby and ask if anything was needed, leaving a stipend even though he was always told that nothing was wanting. These visits were always short and somewhat strained. A cup of tea, remarks about the child’s health and feeding habits, pleasantries about the weather and brief reports on Phillip’s activities. Then he would be gone. Agnes saw more and more that something had gotten broken between them, like a bone that had been snapped and never set.

            This visit was no different but for Phillip’s announcement that he himself would be gone for a couple of weeks or so to take charge of a small farm to the north that he and his father had just acquired. He handed Agnes a packet containing funds sufficient for the care of the child until his return. Although the boy was not his, he repeated, he was at present responsible for his maintenance and was deeply in debt to Agnes and her family for their care of him. He was earnestly searching for a permanent home for the child and would relieve Agnes of him as soon as possible.

            Agnes walked outside with him and watched as he swung up onto his horse. Standing just a few feet from him she felt a yawning chasm between them. It had become impossible to picture touching him again, sitting wrapped in his arms, kissing his mouth. From his saddle Phillip gave her a long look. For a moment she saw the old Phillip, his eyes full of a thousand thoughts yet to be spoken, a promise of brilliance, a deep well of sweet affection waiting to be plumbed. Then he vanished, and the sad and preoccupied man returned to wave farewell and ride away.

            The next day the rain began in earnest and continued for two weeks. Agnes and Stella sat inside like new prisoners unused to confinement, now and then walking to the front door and looking out at the puddled drive, wondering how deep the clouds were and how far they stretched west and how distant was a clear blue sky. They tried to remember the feel of fair weather, dry garden paths dotted with shade, soft grass to sit on, the warm slate of the terrace in late afternoon.

            Agnes’s thoughts often strayed to the mother of the child in her arms. She wondered how a woman, even a frightened one without resources, could leave her own child behind. But Rupa must be still a child herself, trying blindly to survive by her own wits. Where did she go after leaving the convent? Was she even still alive? How much of her sad story would this child ever know?

            Then the renewed patter of drops striking the windows brought her back. Henri’s teeth had begun to push through his tender gums, turning the sweet baby into a fussy, whimpering thing who could not be pleased. Through the long hours of these soggy days, Agnes and Stella took turns picking him up and walking slowly through the dim rooms.

Chapter 51

A man alone on the night streets of Marseilles was not necessarily in peril. Even if he were unsure of the way back to his hotel, he had little to fear if he kept his wits about him or if his obvious poverty told thieves he was not worth robbing. However, a well-dressed stranger who swayed as he wandered the tight streets, each of which appeared in the dark very much like the one before—a man who had just won an enviable sum at a poker table—this man ran a good chance of falling into mischief before reaching the bed he so keenly longed for.

            Wilbur, on this late summer night, with a light salty breeze blowing in from the sea, was just such a man. Indeed, the night was so pleasant that he hardly minded that he seemed to be getting no closer to his destination no matter how many blocks he walked. The wine and rum—of which he had imbibed considerably more after leaving La Violette and stopping into a bar a few doors down—had worked together to dull his sensibilities and tranquilize his habitual suspicion so that he did not notice the three shadows dogging his steps at a precise distance. If we were there to watch the progress of these silent Corsicans, who had followed their prey out of La Coquette, we might well imagine that they were only waiting until they reached a sufficiently dark and deserted part of the city to engage the gentleman in a short debate as to who should most properly be in possession of the roll of bills that filled his trouser pocket. Who knows—the trio might also hope to convince him that he would be more comfortable if they relieved him of the heavy silver pocket watch they had seen him consult more than once during the evening.

            Fortunately for our little band, Wilbur eventually strayed into just such a quarter as befit these transactions. Mr. Brown paused on a dreary corner and pulled out the watch just mentioned, straining to see in the pale moonlight that the hands pointed to ten minutes past two. It was at this moment that his attention was arrested by the sharp end of an object pressing much too harshly against his lower back, while two pairs of strong hands gripped his arms, the better to steady him. The man directly behind him spoke a few words that he did not understand, while one large hand closed around his watch and another jerked the chain from its loop. At this Wilbur let out the first quarter note of a shout before another hand, no doubt belonging to the remarkably coarse face that flashed before him, cuffed him squarely under the jaw, indicating that these men preferred the universal language of silent negotiation. Wilbur felt a blow to his stomach that, in combination with the previous one to his chin, brought him fully awake, so he felt with perfect clarity the impact of the brick wall against his spine. Deftly, two of the men emptied his pockets in a blink as he lay against the wall, gasping for breath.

            Remembering the knife deep in an inner pocket, Wilbur pushed his hand down inside to see if it was still there. Somehow the men had missed it. He drew it out and opened the blade awkwardly as the companions drifted down the street, seemingly confident that the well-dressed gentleman would be resting for some time in the heap he had fallen into. Wilbur was not ordinarily a brave man—quite the contrary. So it is hard to explain why he chose to gain his feet and follow his new acquaintances, or why, when they turned, he lunged at the ugly one and planted his knife in the man’s upper chest. Maybe it was his fury at being robbed, for this was his first experience receiving rather than inflicting that injustice. Maybe he was at the point in his barren life when he no longer cared if it continued another day or not. Or perhaps the alcohol urged him forward in a way his sober mind would never have allowed.

            In any case, his rash reprisal was quickly met with a counterattack. All three men, being sentimental creatures at heart, carried long, sharp knives with them at all times, souvenirs from their homeland. While the ugly man fell back to nurse his wound, his companions made quick work of Wilbur, stabbing him once each with an exactitude that testified to their experience in this profession. As Wilbur crumpled with a look of astonishment on his face, the men wiped their blades briefly on his coat, returned them to their sheaths, and hooking arms with their damaged comrade, hurried off into the dark.

            It all happened with barely a sound. Wilbur lay across a doorstep looking up at a starry sky, aware only of a creeping coldness in his limbs and an inability to move. After a few moments or hours, he could not tell, he became aware of someone standing beside him. With great effort he turned his head. A man, darker even than the darkness around him, stood as though waiting. Wilbur wondered why this person was here but found he could not speak. Still, the man responded as though he had.

            “It’s almost time to go,” the dark man said quietly. Where? Wilbur thought, staring at the face he could not make out.

            “Somewhere you have never been but will always be.”

            I hate riddles, Wilbur thought. He could no longer feel his body.

            The dark man pulled Wilbur to his feet. He held him up easily and looked deep into his puzzled eyes. “I’m very sorry.” He spoke the simple words with such compassion that a thrill of terror ran through Wilbur, a terror that could have filled the universe. Immediately, a powerful whirl of warm but noiseless wind pulled him from that dirty street and the world it lay upon.

            In the first gray light of day, a charwoman shuffling toward the counting house of Frères Lafèvre squinted at the dark shape before the door. Coming up to it she cursed and set down the tools of her trade. This would be a fine mess to clean up, she grumbled as she pushed and pulled the stiff, well-dressed gentleman out of the way, unlocked the heavy door, and began the day’s chores with more than her customary ill humor. Nearly an hour would pass before a gendarme, walking his usual morning patrol, would find Wilbur and round up a cart to take him to the morgue.

To be continued . . .